


Roses, forget-me-nots, carnations, and camillias

by SansThePacifist



Series: Soul Eater Stories [2]
Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Camillias - Admiration/Perfection, Coughing, Dark Pink Roses - Thankfulness, F/M, Forget-Me-Nots - True Love/Love/Memories, Hanahaki Disease, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Lots. Of. Angst., Loud/Painful death, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of surgery, One-Sided Love, Other, Red Carnations - Admiration/My Heart Aches for You, Rip soul, The Language of Flowers, Torn throat/lungs, Truly one-sided love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 05:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansThePacifist/pseuds/SansThePacifist
Summary: Soul tensed up with almost every sentence, folding the petal in his hands nervously. “So I’m gonna die?”“Only if you don’t confess to whoever this one-sided affection is for or get surgery for it, although surgery is said to remove said affections.”“If it’s one-sided already from the description, why would I do something as uncool as confess?”“There are rare cases where the feelings grow mutual and the buds disappear.” He nodded, red eyes a bit emptier than before.





	Roses, forget-me-nots, carnations, and camillias

**Author's Note:**

> This!! Fandom!! Doesn't have!! The!! Hanahaki Disease!!
> 
> so here you go!

He was choking on something soft, silky, and he was finding it hard to think. His meister was panicking, and he could honestly understand it, but at the moment he wanted to breathe. She pat his back before hitting it harshly and whatever it was stuck in his throat fell to the floor. It was dark pink and he couldn’t help but wonder why he choked on a petal. Did he accidentally inhale one at some point? He looked over to Maka in confusion, reading the shock quickly. So she didn’t know either. He decided to shrug it off, giving one of those famous, although somewhat shaky, smiles of his.

 

It happened again, only this time they were training with Stein. It was much easier for the petal to flop gently into his open hand. Although the dark pink petal was a bit bigger than the last one, he didn’t pay much mind to it, though he wished he could say the same for Stein. That man was suddenly pestering him about if it had been hard to breathe lately or if being around someone in specific eased any pain. Of course, he asked what this was all about and the doctor began to explain, in front of everyone mind you, what the Hanahaki Disease was.

Soul tensed up with almost every sentence, folding the petal in his hands nervously. “So I’m gonna die?”

“Only if you don’t confess to whoever this one-sided affection is for or get surgery for it, although surgery is said to remove said affections.”

“If it’s one-sided already from the description, why would I do something as uncool as confess?”

“There are rare cases where the feelings grow mutual and the buds disappear.” He nodded, red eyes a bit emptier than before.

 

Maka had a fist full of flowers when he got home and, rightfully so, he panicked. “Who is it?” He would find them and give them a lesson. Fight them and tell them just how wonderful she is, _make_ them love her. She only shook her head and gave a smile, the blue petals falling to the floor.

 

Two weeks passed, and by then he found out quickly that he had roses and maybe four weeks before the roses would be fully bloomed. When he had someone translate the language of the flowers and explain to him what they mean, he had to laugh. And so he did. He laughed until petals stopped him and he couldn’t breathe once more. Dark pink roses, as he was told, resembled thankfulness. He supposed it couldn’t be very closer to the truth.

Other flowers had begun to ‘sprout within’ as well. Forget-me-nots, red carnations, they were all there every time he so much as coughed. The forget-me-nots and carnations were little and far in between, but he had a feeling that as the weeks passed, his throat would only get full of more flowers and chest heavy with blossoms.

 

Maka didn’t seem to have much problems with her flowers but he insisted, insisted that she went and confessed or maybe just got the blossoms removed and went on with life. She would only shake her head and say nothing. Maybe he was biased towards Maka, since she was more important to him than his own life. She had him wrapped around her finger, he had almost died multiple times to protect her, he had _killed_ to protect her, he would do anything for her but get rid of his disease.

 

Two weeks left and it was already basically impossible to breathe, he had been kicked over to the hospital to be watched over just in case he decided to get surgery. Not that he would, but they could hope. Maka sat at his bedside, quiet, but her soul was trying to tell him something, he could feel it. He looked over and gave her a smile. She cried. “I love you,” she would whisper through the tears, and his chest would ache because he knew she really didn’t.

 

One week left now, he supposed, he had to be connected to a pump to be able to breathe, but it didn’t stop him from coughing or wheezing or trying to _breathe_.

His doctor would frown each time he reached for his neck and tried to massage it. When he asked Maka to do it, she would. It felt ten times better and eased the pain.

 

He was told it would be the last day, and he couldn’t help but agree. His chest was heavy and tight, the pump was doing no good so they removed it. In the end, he was laying there connected to wires and monitors, and trying to muster up the strength to breathe. His blossoms had long ago been covered in blood and he figured it had torn up his throat. Speaking would, most likely, hurt as well as make him bleed, but he wanted to. He wanted to speak, to confess. After all, it was his last day.

They said his death would be loud, so it seemed he would go out with a bang. It would most likely hurt a lot as well, painful, loud. Not exactly his style. He coughed and watched as blood fell onto the sheets, wiping the rest off of his hands, and watching it smear beautifully into the white. They said that he might even have another week left, but if he did, it would be torture. They said that his lungs had too many punctures from the roses thorns and roots or vines. Unless he got transplants, he was going to die.

Maka winced as she walked in, noting the blood carefully. She looked terrible, although probably better than him, hair a mess and bags under her eyes. His own eyes lit up slightly, waving a hand to call her over. He rubbed the rest of the blood off of his hands carefully before she sat next to him, curious and sad. He was already having second thoughts, what if she rejects him and it gets worse, maybe he shouldn’t speak at all- no, he would have to so that it would count as a confession.

He pulled her into a tight hug and whispered into her hair, “I love you, I’m sorry.”

  


Perhaps he should have done it earlier, because as soon as he pulled away he was coughing and coughing and blood was falling. She called for the nurse before pulling his head to her chest and sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I love somebody else.”

 

Not like he expected much different, so he fought the flowers and gave a small smile, wishing her the best of luck with whoever it was she loved.

 

The tightness in his chest hurt like hell, blood was falling quickly, throat torn and lungs full. Full roses and forget-me-nots arose, the camellias and carnations hiding before dropping as well. Soon enough, his bed was covered in blossomed flowers and blood.

It really was loud, he could see the nurses, through the tears, gasping and shaking their heads before looking away. They knew it was the end for him, and, well, so did he. He couldn’t cough anymore, his chest rattled and his throat was too torn. He was dying. He was suffocating on flowers because he wasn’t loved back.


End file.
